ready to do anything. . . .
Come, tell me how I can do something to make up in part at least!
To make up for that lost happiness, I can give you other happiness.
I can, Ivan Petrovitch; I am ready to do anything! It would be base
on my part to leave you without satisfaction. . . . I understand
you at this moment."

Bugrov waved his hand as though to say, 'For God's sake, go away.'
His eyes began to be dimmed by a treacherous moisture--in a moment
they would see him crying like a child.

"I understand you, Ivan Petrovitch. I will give you another happiness,
such as hitherto you have not known. What would you like? I have
money, my father is an influential man. . . . Will you? Come, how
much do you want?"

Bugrov's heart suddenly began throbbing. . . . He clutched at the
window curtains with both hands. . . .

"Will you have fifty thousand? Ivan Petrovitch, I entreat you. . . .
It's not a bribe, not a bargain. . . . I only want by a sacrifice
on my part to atone a little for your inevitable loss. Would you
like a hundred thousand? I am willing. A hundred thousand?"

My God! Two immense hammers began beating on the perspiring temples
of the unhappy Ivan Petrovitch. Russian sledges with tinkling bells
began racing in his ears. . . .

"Accept this sacrifice from me," Groholsky went on, "I entreat you!
You will take a load off my conscience. . . . I implore you!"

My God! A smart carriage rolled along the road wet from a May shower,
passed the window through which Bugrov's wet eyes were looking. The
horses were fine, spirited, well-trained beasts. People in straw
hats, with contented faces, were sitting in the carriage with long
fishing-rods and bags. . . . A schoolboy in a white cap was holding
a gun. They were driving out into the country to catch fish, to
shoot, to walk about and have tea in the open air. They were driving
to that region of bliss in which Bugrov as a boy--the barefoot,
sunburnt, but infinitely happy son of a village deacon--had once
raced about the meadows, the woods, and the river banks. Oh, how
fiendishly seductive was that May! How happy those who can take off
their heavy uniforms, get into a carriage and fly off to the country
where the quails are calling and there is the scent of fresh hay.
Bugrov's heart ached with a sweet thrill that made him shiver. A
hundred thousand! With the carriage there floated before him all
the secret dreams over which he had gloated, through the long years
of his